


Apostils: The Reluctant Alchemist's Miscellanea

by paraparadigm



Series: Recipes for Disaster [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2019-10-20 11:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17621426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraparadigm/pseuds/paraparadigm
Summary: Snippets from the Reluctant Alchemist series: alternative POVs, writerly throat-clearings and mini-character studies.





	1. How to Train your Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> These are little ficlets that didn't make it into the main story. I sometimes do alternative character POVs for myself to figure out voicing and character arcs, or I write my way into a scene, and then realize something doesn't quite fit. So this is the cutting floor rejects, as it were, but they're fun to do, and might tie you over if you're all caught up on the fic and waiting for a new chapter release. 
> 
> These are canon-adjacent to the main story, but don't necessarily fit into the timeline, so some might be slightly AU-ish.
> 
> Flash fiction, not beta-ed, excuse the mess.
> 
> Requests welcome!

“Maker’s balls, Sera, leave it be, will you?” 

Rainier takes out his pipe, and makes a show of cleaning it and filling it up again. Not that he feels like smoking, but it gives him something to do — beats the alternative of tackling the thrice-bedamned elf and tossing her in the nearest mud puddle.

Sera collapses back on her bedroll with a dramatic “Ughhh!,” arms splayed out to the sides like she’s being crushed under the weight of Rainier’s romantic failures. He hazards a glance at Margo, who gives him a sympathetic wince before getting back to stirring the pot of stew. No help from those quarters, but at least she’s not encouraging the fuzzhead to badger him with more “useful advice.”

“Well, don’t just sit ‘n stir, Spindly. Tell him, yeah? You’re the only one here who fancies the dangly bits — or whatever Old, Long, Bald, and Ugly comes equipped with. Got you in the sack, somehow, so what’s the secret? Warden Blackwall here can use the advice, ‘cuz clearly, doing it wrong.” 

“I don’t think it’s a one size fits all sort of thing, Sera. I’m sure Warden Blackwall and the ambassador can figure things out on their own terms.”

Sera flops on her stomach, and tosses a half-gnawed bread crust at Margo’s head. The lass dodges it, and the crust lands in the soup. She fishes it out, and throws it into the bushes. 

“This soup doesn’t need any more secret ingredients. And leave the poor man be,” the alchemist chastises, but it doesn’t have much bite. Rainier shakes his head in a warning — don’t feed the vagherst — but it’s too late. The archer flips to her back then rocks into a sitting position like one of those roly-poly toys — Rainier carved a couple of them for the refugee kids outside the cultists’ keep — and fixes him with that evil smirk of hers. He doesn’t bother to hide the sigh. Once Sera’s on a roll, there’s really no stopping it. Might as well ride out the storm.

“You’re no help, Spindly. We need a, whatchamacallit? A stragedy.” 

Blackwall groans. He knew he should’ve just sat with the Chargers. “No, Sera, I do not need a  _ strategy _ . Ambassador Montilyet is not a castle to lay siege to.”

“Not a strategy, you numpty, a  _ stragedy _ . It’s like strategy and tragedy, but together. Get it? S’called ‘damsel in distress.’ Now, we just need someone to do the distressing, yeah?”

Rainier scowls. “I am  _ not _ putting Lady Josephine in danger, just to…”

Sera, of course, talks right over him. “Got it! It’ll be grand, yeah? First. Steal dragon egg.”

The puff of smoke in his lungs comes out in a choked wheeze. All he’s able to do is shake his head vigorously while trying to regain his breath. “ _ What? _ ” he finally manages.

“Dragons, Beardie. Try to follow, yeah? Dragons and damsels go together, like… pickles and milk!” The mad archer’s expression becomes alarmingly dreamy at the thought. “Or cookies and ale. Best thing.”

“Ignoring that horrible combination for a moment. Did you miss the part where they try to eat you?” Rainier has an unwelcome flashback to the winged bastard in the Hinterlands — his ribs still ache from that fight — and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Actually…” The alchemist starts ladling the stew into their bowls. “That’s not technically accurate. They first try to turn you into a patty, then they fry you or freeze you, and  _ then _ they eat you. The benefits of a cooked meal, and all that.”

Sera, Void take her, just waves it away. “That’s why we need an  _ egg _ . Hatch it, train it from birth, teach it tricks. Works on a mabari. Same rules apply.”

“Mabaris don’t hatch from eggs, you demented fennec!”

“The  _ point _ , Beardie. Missing it. I’m saying we need a trained dragon. Pretend to kidnap Lady J, all fierce like, ‘ _ graaaooor groaaar’... _ ” Sera flaps her arms to better get her point across “...but then it’s all, ‘scratch my scales, gimme treats.’ But Lady J don’t know that, so that’s where  _ you  _ come in. All big and brave and bearded, and ‘ _ Face me, Dragon _ !’ Brilliant, innit?”

Margo hands Sera her bowl. “It’ll take too long.” 

Rainier scowls at her. He should have known this would come eventually. Somehow, these two always end up teaming up. And you wouldn’t know it just by looking at her — the alchemist  _ looks _ so reasonable. He accepts his own bowl with a resigned sigh. 

“We don’t have time to grow a dragon to full adulthood.”

“Well, whaddya propose, then?”

“We should ask Dorian to reanimate a dead one.”

Rainier spits out his stew.

  
  



	2. Evie, Hinterlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion Chapter to "Crow Bait" in RAGT Vol 1.

**Evie Trevelyan, Crossroads, Hinterlands**

“I kind of don’t mind killing goats, actually,” Evie says quietly, and then she immediately gets flustered, because that didn’t come out quite right. “I mean, I don’t like killing goats at all, they’re cute and fluffy, and they have these tubby little tummies and stumpy legs… And I wish we could eat them without having to kill them.”

That comes out even worse.

She looks to Varric for help, but he’s just shaking his head and chortling. “You know you’re just digging a bigger hole, Tricky?”

Evie huddles into her blanket and groans. She should just give up. It’s like words have a mind of their own, and when they come out, they quickly arrange themselves into the most embarrassing combination possible. Why is it that some people can just say the exact right thing at exactly the right time, and all their words seem ordered and well-behaved? Like Lady Vivienne. Or Josephine. And then when Evie tries to convey a thought, all the words either scatter away, bleating unhappily, or they come together like a bunch of socially awkward guests at a party and mill around and bump into each other?

“Methinks Our Lady Herald has a bloodthirsty streak,” Blackwall offers, and Evie’s pretty sure he’s smiling into that beard of his, but who can tell? There’s more beard than man.

“I’m not! I mean, I don’t! That’s what I’m trying to say — I don’t like killing people. I mean, some people probably deserve it. Like those mages back there, because they weren’t nice at all, and made everyone’s life really difficult.” She sighs. “At least when it’s goats, there’s sort of a clear point to it, isn’t there? You get to eat them. Or use their… pelts? Fur? Uhm, hide?”

She turns to Brett, a few paces away from them by the stew pot. The hunter notices her gaze, and nods. For whatever it’s worth, he doesn’t seem to be perturbed by her take on goats at all. “It’s ‘hide,’ my Lady. And I, for one, can see what you mean. It’s honest work. And it serves a purpose.” He gestures towards the village. “These people are going to go to bed with their bellies full tonight. That counts for more than you might think.”

“Are you suggesting we should eat the mages, your Heraldness?” Varric interjects. Evie looks at him in horror, feeling her ears burn with embarrassment. That always happens when she gets flustered. Her ears get so hot she could probably boil water just by leaning against a kettle. But then, Evie’s pretty sure that if Varric doesn’t let some of that laughter building up inside of him come out, he’ll blow up. Or sort of float away, like one of those balloons Max would sometimes bring her when she was small. She always liked the balloons. Sometimes, she’d imagine herself one, just rising higher and higher, out of everyone’s reach. Like now. It would be nice to just float away from all this embarrassment.

“No, I don’t mean that at all! We absolutely shouldn’t eat the mages. Even the rebel ones. For one, they all look very malnourished, don’t they?” At this point, even Cassandra is giving her an odd sort of look. “Oh no, I don’t mean it like that! Not that they wouldn’t be good to eat, that’s not what I’m saying.” Oh, this is just getting worse. She should stop talking. She should. Aunt Lucille is right, she should just not talk at all. But, of course, she forges on, because at this point her mouth has declared its independence from the rest of her. “What I’m trying to say is that they’re probably not getting enough to eat either, and so it’s sort of like everyone is really desperate, and then the next thing you know, they do horrible things because it just feels like there’s no other choice. Does that makes sense?” No. No it doesn’t at all. It doesn’t even make sense to her anymore. She had a point back there somewhere, but then it waddled away into the hills.

Vivienne, who has been in an absolutely foul mood since she’s had to change into her other dress, which she doesn’t seem to like as much as the one she usually wears, raises her head from her work of getting the blood stains out of her ruined gown. Evie can feel the banked annoyance radiating from Vivienne, like a kind of heat wave. She supposes she’d be very upset too, the gown looks like a really fine example of Orlesian couture. “My dear, one way or another, the business of killing is never pleasant. Unfortunately, it is also necessary, and there is absolutely no point in wafting about it. Such are the times.”

Under all that prickly head, Lady Vivienne seems a touch mournful, and Evie, whose clothing had always been picked for her until she landed with the Inquisition, isn’t sure exactly how to comfort the Orlesian mage — not that she could do that very effectively, considering the whole rebel words thing. When she worked up the courage to ask about the dress, Evie caught only a tiny part of the Enchanter’s oblique references. Something about Dukes and walking arm in arm despite the whispers, and glossy masks that hide mockery like a blade in folds of fabric, and how clothes are armor too, and how they hold memories — though Vivienne’s dress has no pockets, so Evie isn’t sure where the memories would be kept. Maybe between the threads, sewn into the cloth like tiny jewels only the dress’s owner can see.

She sighs. Of course, it’s not pleasant. And, besides, it’s done, and now it sticks to you like a stain that won’t come out, no matter how much you rub it. No going back. And the villagers at the Crossroads seem to be happy with both sets of killings: grateful that the mages are dead, and that the goats are dead too. And that’s the horribly sad thing about it that Evie’s trying to cram into her words. Rather unsuccessfully, as per usual. “I just wish it weren’t necessary.”

“Wishing will not change the situation, my dear. Take heart in the fact that we have provided these people with much needed assistance.”

Cassandra nods. “Quite right, Madame Vivienne. And our work is far from done. As long as the Templars are a threat, this hamlet remains in danger.”

Brett makes a weird sort of noise by the pot, and, judging by his tone, it should involve a lot of swear words if he actually verbalized it. Maybe he’s got trouble with getting the words out too. “These bastards are far worse than the mages. At least the mages kept to themselves, except for the occasional supply raids. The Templars are like the wild cats you find in the hills. They love to play with their prey first.”

Evie’s eye widen.

“Are Margo, and Scout Harding, and all the others going to be alright? Maybe we really shouldn’t stay for too long. What if they need some help?” She looks between her companions. None of them appear that alarmed. Maybe they don’t know much about cats? “Because cats really are quite nasty little things, sometimes. It’s all purring and cuddles, and then the next thing you know, it’s disemboweling a baby bunny on your bed,” she adds, just in case they’ve never met cats before.

“No.” Solas approaches their circle from the edge of the platform, where he was previously pacing. Evie frowns in puzzlement. He doesn’t think cats are nasty? He’s worried about baby bunnies?

Come to think of it, Solas is acting a little odd. She has no idea how he’s managing to fall asleep at the most random times, but he does — taking these weird little five minute naps. But then, each time he wakes up, he gets even more restless. She’s pretty sure he’s going to wear a groove in the cobblestones if he keeps on with all that walking back and forth. Maybe Aunt Lucille is right, and naps are, in fact, bad for your constitution. Raise the bile, she said. But then, Evie doesn’t think Solas looks particularly bellicose. From what she knows, bellicose people should look yellowish, and he’s very pale, and more on the bluish end of the spectrum. Also he seems worried and like he’s trying to cram all that worry into a container that’s too small for it.

“What I mean is that we should exercise caution. Cassandra, have we received word from Scout Harding’s patrol?”

Cassandra gives Solas a strange sort of look, but then she shakes her head. “No, but it has not been very long. Regardless, there is a plan in place. Their patrol is more than capable, Solas — I would not be overly concerned. I am sure they would make the best tactical decision, given the circumstances.”

“Not to mention that the damn birds sometimes do end up taking their sweet time,” Varric opines. “I missed a manuscript deadline once like that. Apparently, they’d forgotten to neuter the raven, and then mating season hit…”

Evie giggles, because at this point she’s imagining a raven reading from the steamier parts of Varric’s manuscript in the hopes of wooing a mate. She had read The Tale of the Champion when no one was looking — which, come to think of it, was most of the time, as long as she did everything that was expected of her — blushing all the way through. Except it was horribly sad what happened to Anders, even if he was a total asshat. And poor Hawke. Evie couldn’t have done it, in her shoes.

Bann Trevelyan would have confiscated most of her books if he’d caught her. “No use filling your head full of this nonsense, my dear child,” he would have said. Except Evie was never sure what he meant when he said it. Was it “ _my_ dear child,” as in Evie being the child of Bann Trevelyan, and not someone else? People did talk about how much Evie did not look at all look like her father, for some reason. “Takes after the mother’s side, does she?” she’d heard some of her father’s friends comment, always with that barbed little smile between the words. Or was it “my _dear_ child”, as opposed to some other of her father’s children who weren’t dears? Except that was unlikely, because Evie is pretty sure she has always been in the bottom drawer when it came to her father’s distributing his affection. Both she and her sister were completely eclipsed by her father’s devotion to her brothers. Or was it “my dear _child_ ,” as in, “you’re a woman grown” when it suits them, and “my dear child” when she tried to ask questions or stepped off the narrow path?

In any case, she’d gotten good at grafting book covers.

Evie frowns in confusion. How had she gotten to book covers? Her thoughts always do that. Rush down some random path and then get lost in the forest, like some hapless sheep or goat. And then — _thwack —_ someone comes along with a bow... And then, there are wolves in the forest too. And bears. And the stray thought gets eaten.

“In either event, it would be wise to wait for news, and there are tasks here that require our immediate attention,” Solas says, and Evie frowns again, because there’s something to the way he says it that doesn’t feel quite right. As if the words are snagging painfully, sort of like when you’re trying to get a splinter out of your foot, and it just keeps breaking off into smaller and smaller pieces.

“Speaking of which, Evelyn, my dear. We really ought to convince that Enchanter Ellandra to join the Inquisition.” Vivienne folds her ruined dress with a resolved little head-shake. “Her skills would be valuable, and she is in more danger here, considering recent events, than she would be in Haven.”

Evie nods, and looks at Cassandra. “But I still think we shouldn’t make Scout Harding’s patrol wait for too long. Because what if they think we’re not coming and start without us?”


End file.
